


Avl i Bringa, Avl i Jordi

by Aearyn



Category: The Banner Saga (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 04:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16758298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aearyn/pseuds/Aearyn
Summary: A disgraced Mender and a solitary Varl have joined to take bounties across Setterlund, using some of their gains to help villages defend themselves; originally against bandits and the like, and now against the re-emerged Dredge threat. The sun may have ground to a halt in the sky, but their relationship is finally moving forward. But there is much more in store for them than finding a new comfort in each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a song called Solringen by Wardruna: Avl i bringa / Avl i jordi  
> Which someone kindly translated as follows: Strength in the body / Growth in the earth
> 
> This is the crudest author's note I've ever written, but let's just be honest. I really, really want to fuck a Varl. So it seemed the next best thing was to write a story about it. But this isn't just a story about fucking, there is a very important overarching point (and I'm not being sarcastic). But listen, it's not my fault the devs created this whole race of HUGE DUDES WITH HORNS (i mean come on) and then said "oh they don't have women" like....DID YOU JUST SET THIS UP FOR ME ON PURPOSE HHHHHH. Also if I was any good at writing m|m, I mean that route would be even easier, like the foundation is just....right there. Anyway, thanks Stoic for haunting my dreams with Varl.

A dark shape against the interminable white of the snow, Dómarr trudged against the wind, and Atla, a much smaller and paler figure, followed behind him. Her pale green eyes scanned the surrounding vista, but there was no sign of what they sought; the snow covered all too quickly. They would soon reach the path down to the sea, and at the bottom they would find if she’d tracked correctly.

“I still think perhaps we should leave him.” Her voice hushed in the softly falling flakes.

Dómarr grunted.

“Yes, I know, and I agree…but it seems likely he will merely die in the crossing, as we might ourselves, not to mention—”

“We’ve been over this.”

She sighed. He was so stubborn. She knew she was as well, in her own way. But Dómarr had a very specific code of honor that he adhered to, and if someone broke it, he would not let it rest. It only stoked his determination that there was a bounty. But he would have followed the man anyway.

They’d received the task from a human village a ways north of Skogr. A man, Dalli, had tormented several of the village girls, luring them away and stealing their virtue, sometimes by persuasion and lies, and sometimes by force. One of the girls he left to die in the snow.

Whether they took on a contract involving disputes between people of equal footing was hit or miss, and Atla rarely disagreed when Dómarr chose not to intervene in such things. But Dómarr had a particular outrage that he saved for men who preyed on women. Something that few Varl seemed to care about, perhaps given they had no women of their own.

It wasn’t that they disliked human women, in Atla’s experience; they were merely indifferent. All humans were a bit weak to them, although some stood out due to their prowess in battle; whether they were male or female seemed to make little difference.

It was what had led Dómarr to save her life, she thought. This strange idea he had – at least to his fellows – that the weak, especially women, must be protected. Little had he known when he pulled her from the snow how strong she actually was. But that had been revealed later, and they had still remained together. They were friends, by then. The only one either of them had was each other. 

The path was ahead, and the snow thankfully stopped, although clouds still obscured the ever-present sun. They could hear the waves crashing distantly below.

“Hold,” he said peremptorily, and she paused. He had a length of rope that he deftly tied round her, the other looped several times around his own wrist. “Go.”

She turned away before he saw her smile. It was reasonable caution that caused him to bind them together on the steep slope, but she still found his protectiveness amusing.

As if she could not shift the entire cliff face to break her fall if she stumbled.

They scrabbled down the trail; rocky and uneven at best, now covered in a thin film of ice, although there was no snow to speak of due to the wind. It was much stronger here, where up top it had been a mere breeze. Atla kept one hand against the stone.

After what seemed like ages they reached the beach, an oddly calm little inlet at odds with the crashing waves nearby. As Dómarr unwound the rope that joined them, Atla slowly cast her eye along the beach, searching for the boats she knew would be here.

“Do you need to search him out again?”

“No,” she answered smugly as she rounded a large rock surrounded by scrubby plants. “No need.” He turned away from the water he’d been perusing with resignation, and came around to see what she was looking at.

A furrow in the wet sand led up to an empty divot where a fourth boat had rested; the other three were still there.

One of them had been hacked up, another dragged a bit forward, but apparently something – perhaps fear of the two of them? – had caused the culprit to give up precipitously, and leave without disabling the other boats.

“The tide,” Dómarr said cryptically, and Atla turned to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“Hacking the boat was taking too long with whatever weapons he had, and he is not very strong. His power lies in his tongue and his toys, not his hands.” Atla had never seen the Varl come closer to a sneer. “He saw the tide about to turn. It would just bring the boats back to shore even if he got them into the water. Best bet was to catch the last of the outgoing tide before he had to fight against it.”

“This is why I keep you around,” she quipped as she dumped her pack into one of the remaining boats, noting that Dalli hadn’t even had the forethought to get rid of the oars. “You’re so much more clever than I.”

He snorted and placed his much larger burden into the boat as well. But then he eyed it with trepidation. “Is this thing going to hold a Varl?”

Her brow lowered. A Varl weighed as much as about three men, and she herself was no lightweight. Plus their things. The boat was likely only meant to hold two or three people…

“I will reinforce it.”

She placed a hand on the edge of the boat.

“You will tire yourself. I should go alone.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do not be ridiculous. We are both going. This will not take much.”

“We do not know what you might have to do when we reach Mornforth Taing.” His voice was tinged with shame, and she sighed. Their quarry had use of weapons that caused fire – almost like what they’d seen the Dredge use from time to time – and Dómarr knew he would have a hard time with it.

“Do not fret, my friend. It should be easy enough for me to disable him, and then you can subdue him without concern for his arsenal.”

He grunted, but let her go.

She closed her eyes once more, scanning the threads of the great tapestry – which ones could she safely draw on in order to shift the sands around the boat…

Slowly she pulled the grains into every crack and cranny of the little craft, then reformed them into a sort of hard clay to seal the boat. Her head began to ache; she had to be so careful not to disturb the rest of the tapestry, and that was what was most difficult about Mending.

A few minutes and she was done, but she sat down heavily in the boat when it was finished, a hand to her forehead.

Dómarr growled and squeezed her shoulder briefly; she put her hand over his to let him know she was fine.

Once Dómarr pushed them out into the water a bit, he climbed gingerly into the boat and plied the oars, propelling them out of the little inlet and into the choppy strait between the mainland and Mornforth Taing.

# ***

Dómarr was a bit out of breath despite his strength, once they reached the island. It had taken some time to row against the incoming tide, though the waters of the strait were relatively calm compared to the open sea.

Dómarr pulled the boat up onto the sand, and looked around. It was easy to see that nothing disturbed the sand besides them and their own vessel.

“He did not come ashore here.”

Atla followed his gaze. “That might be good – if we can come after him from a different direction than he expects, we may catch him unawares.” She glanced at the steep hillside path that wound up a slope of dead grass – no snow that she could see, and it was a bit warmer here, oddly enough. “Perhaps we should camp here for a bit, dry our damp clothes, where he can’t catch us unawares.”

Dómarr nodded, and Atla pulled a clay contraption from her pack; the heaviest thing in it by far. She’d made it herself, and when she revealed it to Dómarr, she had never seen a Varl more flabbergasted, or more at a loss for words. It had been quite amusing.

She knew that, as did most Varl, Dómarr disliked fire. She’d seen some women using these types of warming pots in a village they’d passed through, and asked them to teach her how to make one. He hadn’t known why she insisted they spend over a week in the village, but had complied since they had nowhere else to be at the time. It had taken her quite a while to get the hang of the spinning table that was used to make the pot, and then it had to be cooked in a special oven for long periods of time.

She’d also enchanted it to ensure it wouldn’t break, since she knew in their travels a fragile clay vessel could easily be shattered.

As he pitched the tent up against some boulders near the base of the hill, away from the water and far back from the tideline, she pulled apart the pieces of the warming pot and set it up, using a tinderbox to light the special candle underneath. As it began to heat up she helped Dómarr finish with the tent.

Once it was up she carefully transferred the pot, which was now quite warm to the touch, inside the little structure. Dómarr was far warmer than she in most situations – it was what had helped her survive more than once – but he didn’t object to resting in a warm tent along with her. They both laid their cloaks over their packs to dry a bit, and sat on furs on either side of the little pot, which cast dancing shadows on the hide walls.

Dómarr was staring strangely at the pot, as if he’d never seen it before. He held his hands out to it, warming cold fingers, a half-confused, half-contemplative look on his face.

Atla watched him curiously, but didn’t prod. He would speak when he was ready. Instead she pulled some rations from their pack – cold cheese, dried meat – and offered him a portion, which he took absently, but didn’t eat yet.

“You did not have to do this,” he said finally.

She blinked, but waited for him to elaborate.

He looked up at her. “Why did you?” He gestured toward the pot.

“I...why are you asking me that? You know why, and besides, it’s been a useful thing, has it not?”

“That is not the point.” He shook his head and looked away. “You could have easily just made fires – that is what everyone does when they travel. And yes, of course it is common knowledge that Varl have an aversion to fire, but I can tolerate a campfire. As you know.”

Speaking of fire, her cheeks burned, and she delayed replying by stuffing a bit of meat in her mouth.

“We are friends. I merely wished to do something nice for you,” she mumbled finally. “Why must you interrogate me over it?”

“I am not stupid, Atla.”

Her eyes widened in near panic. She, a Mender, who could literally move mountains – made afraid by a mere tone of voice from her companion. She swallowed.

“It is not as significant as you make it out to be.”

“Very well. What about what happened in the Nordfelling Wastes? We haven’t spoken of that either.”

“And we don’t need to! I would think you would be happy your traveling companion is concerned for your well-being!” She knew her voice made it obvious; she rarely raised it, and it _never_ shook. But she had little experience with emotions, and no idea how to quell them.

He sighed, and began eating his food, apparently content to let the matter rest. For now.

She laid down and turned away from him, and pretended to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "But there is much more in store for them than finding a new comfort in each other. " Y'all like that line? Me too, except I actually have no idea what all is in store because I haven't yet finished the 3rd installment so umm. I'll have to come back and edit this later with a little more accurate foreshadowing ;)
> 
> And here's a link to the Wardruna song for anyone that was curious. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rEeEKYbVX8


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later, they were on the trail of their bounty. She’d had to search for him again, using her Mender abilities, but it was easy now that he was so close.

Atla crept through the trees, Dómarr hanging back for a moment to avoid making noise that would give them away. Dalli was facing her, but glancing over his shoulder, clearly nervous, unsure what direction his pursuers would approach from. She took a second to observe him – handsome profile, full lips, pale blonde hair pulled back, dark clothes tattered by his flight.

She reached out, and just like that, immobilized him; he twitched, but couldn’t move any more than that, shocked though he must be. She didn’t think he knew a Mender was after him. She permitted herself a small, smug smile, and then whistled for Dómarr to come forth.

She would have to release him once Dómarr had a hold on him, or they wouldn’t be able to move his limbs to bind him. Dómarr took Dalli’s wrists, his hands dwarfing the man’s arms, and nodded to her.

With a tilt of her head, the man’s stillness was released, but he didn’t struggle. He turned his head for a moment and stared, his deep blue eyes seeming to bore into her, and she wondered what those young girls could have found enticing about such an unnerving man.

But then his jaw clenched, and Atla’s eyes narrowed; he turned his head, and opened his mouth.

Atla bounded forward, a warning on her tongue, but it was too late – a gout of fire poured forth, and Dómarr, startled and instinctively flinching back from the fire, released him.

Atla’s attempt to intervene backfired as Dalli came for her; she had no time to call upon the threads, her abilities didn’t work that fast. Not the ones she needed, anyway.

She threw up her right arm as a blade appeared in the man’s hand, and when it came down against her forearm with a loud chink, he realized she was wearing more armor than he’d anticipated. Dómarr, recovered from the surprise of the fire, came after him with a roar, but he dodged away, reaching into the pack at his belt, his attention redirecting toward his much larger assailant.

Atla knew he was going to use one of the strange concoctions he’d tossed at the village men who’d attempted to capture him. A bottle somehow full of fire.

Varl weren’t afraid of fire for no reason. It was somehow related to the method of their creation; however, it wasn’t merely perceived. Fire could burn a man alive, but it could burn a Varl much quicker, somehow. If Dalli managed to hit Dómarr with the full force of his fire bottle, he might be killed.

Atla had only one second to process all this, and then did the only thing she could think to do. She was just close enough. She dove, and tackled Dalli, who weighed little more than she did, and was shorter. Dómarr’s frustrated yell echoed behind her as she took Dalli down, and felt the crunch of the bottle between them as they fell.

But this bottle wasn’t full of fire.

She groaned as cold exploded into her chest; whatever strange witchery he’d used to make these concoctions, they were so fast acting she could already feel her heart slowing. Desperately she called on the threads, tried to wind them around her insides, protect herself, but she knew it was too late. She could slow the poison, such as it was, but she didn’t know how to stop it. She struggled to breathe.

As if from a ways away she heard Dómarr bellow with rage, and a gruesome snap as he broke Dalli’s neck. The ice had affected both of them, and the man was fairly defenseless, and likely would have died anyway. But she couldn’t say she blamed Dómarr for putting an end to him; if their positions were reversed, she’d have done the same.

The Varl knelt next to her, his horns casting a shadow on either side of her face. He took her hand.

“What do I do? Can you heal this?”

She shook her head slowly. “Don’t know how,” she choked out, and her breath came out cold, not a wisp of vapor to be seen, where Dómarr’s heavy breaths puffed out in little clouds.

“I will take you back to Blotsbalkr, they will be able to help you, or find someone who can—”

“S-sorry,” she whispered, a tear escaping her eye, only to turn to ice as it rolled down her face.

“Ridiculous.” Dómarr laid a hand against her face, and she closed her eyes, for one moment feeling a bit of warmth creep back into her. He saw it, and a faint lessening of the whiteness that had crept over her skin.

He pulled her up, and she winced, the cold now an ache in every bone, every muscle, and most acutely in her chest. Every breath was agony. He gathered her against him, pulled open his fur cloak to tuck her beneath it.

She felt – the slightest easing to the cold. It wouldn’t be enough, but perhaps it could delay her death long enough for her to tell him—

“We’ll use his tent,” he mumbled, and bundled her into it. He pulled off her pack, one handed, careful not to let her go. He fumbled the clay pot out of it, inexpertly put it together; she couldn’t turn her head to look, but saw the frustration in his face, through heavy-lidded eyes.

“You have to…turn the…” she whispered. She heard a clink, and his sigh of relief told her he’d set it up properly. He managed to light the candle and place it in the bottom; once he did he sat back in the tiny tent, barely able to hold him with his burden, and wrapped his furs more securely around her.

“You must stay awake, Atla,” he said sternly, his breath warm against her silvery hair.

“What’s…the use…”

“If you allow that piece of ox dung to kill you I swear I’ll go berserk!”

This elicited the ghost of a smile. “Fine then…”

“Shall I scold you? Will that wake you up?”

Compared to the acute pain when she’d first been afflicted, she now felt almost cozy, and far from waking her, his voice was like a balm that lulled her even closer to sleep.

“I don’t…think that will…help…”

He growled, and she smiled again, as far as she could do so, anyway.

It wouldn’t be so bad to die, now, would it?

She’d never really contemplated anything coming of her feelings – had barely contemplated her feelings at all. Had pushed them away, stuffed them down. They only made themselves evident in things like making the warming pot…and throwing herself in front of him when he was in danger, perhaps.

She knew the truth of it, but there was no use dwelling on it; it was just a fact of her existence.

This wasn’t all that different from the handful of other times they’d had to ‘cuddle’ for warmth, during their travels. But…

Surely, it was alright, in death, to imagine a brighter reality than that which existed? Surely she could be forgiven for being glad of his solidity, his warm arms around her. His breath in her hair. Something that never otherwise would have happened.

Her mind was losing its hold on wakefulness, and she let it swim in daydreams. She could just drift away…


	3. Chapter 3

His arms tightened, and she felt a shudder roll through him. Then another. Clarity reasserted itself, just a little. Was he alright? Had the cold that afflicted her somehow spread to him?

Then she felt his cheek against her hair.

Her brain struggled to process.

He was crying for her, or as close as a Varl could get. He didn’t want her to die…

She forced her eyes open. She couldn’t die like this – he would never forgive himself. How devastated would she be if he were to die in her arms, after he’d sacrificed himself to save her? Perhaps there was one layer missing in one scenario versus the other, but it didn’t matter – they were still friends, the closest of companions, and it would still hurt him. She couldn’t allow it.

She took a deep breath, though it hurt. With all the strength she could muster, she raised a hand and gripped his arm.

He lifted his head, eyes wide, and perhaps a little damp.

“You…can’t get rid of me…that easily…” she huffed, and his chuckle was more of a sigh of relief.

“I knew you were too stubborn for that,” he mumbled. “I’m convinced you can heal yourself, but tell me what I can do to help?”

If she hadn’t been under the effects of some sort of freezing magic, she would have blushed. As it was, she just looked away. But she had to ask him – she would just lay here in stasis if she couldn’t get a bit warmer. With her body under less duress, she could concentrate on the threads.

“I…I need…”

“Anything. Tell me.”

“Skin,” she said cryptically. He was silent for a moment, but then focused on where his hand touched her face.

Where there was a touch of color.

Immediately he unhooked her cloak, and managed to get her out of most of her minimal armor underneath her robes, then the robes themselves, until she was in her undergarments. He pulled the strap of his scabbard over his head, undid the ties of his shirt and pulled it open. He gathered her back to him, tucking her against his bare chest, and pulled his cloak back over her. He was so much bigger than she – and she was no waif.

She sighed with almost indecent relief. Took a deep breath, then another. It still hurt, but she could feel her extremities again. Which meant they hurt, too, but the ache just told her they were still there.

But she struggled a bit, and he looked down. “Is it working?”

“Are…aren’t you getting cold?” she asked, having suddenly realized he was essentially holding a melting block of ice against him.

His bark of laughter startled her. He rarely laughed, and it made her smile despite the circumstances.

“Don’t worry about me.”

She tucked her head back beneath his chin. “Alright.”

# ***

They remained like that for hours. She bent all her concentration, all her energy, on the icy tendrils in her chest that threatened to kill her. She borrowed Dómarr’s warmth, which seemed limitless, self-replenishing. She needn’t fear he would freeze, there seemed no danger of it. Carefully she tended her physical form as one might tend a fire. She couldn’t let it go out.

Her self-consciousness quickly dissipated once she refocused herself on the real problem at hand. She didn’t have any attention to spare for the muscles beneath her hand, the black hair that covered his chest, and tickled her cheek. The softness of his beard.

It was when she did notice these things that she realized her recovery was almost complete – at least the acute phase of it, at any rate. She would be weak for days, maybe weeks, and she would have to work hard to get herself back to full health. But she was out of the woods, so to speak.

And abruptly the realization of their position came flooding back to her. She tensed, and pushed against him. He immediately loosened his hold, but didn’t let go.

“Are you…better?”

She felt heat rush to her cheeks.

He laughed again, and she pursed her lips against her unintended smile.

“Atla.” His voice was instantly sober again, and her eyes flew to his. She was reminded, unnecessarily, of how intensely blue they were. Like the night sky, when there used to be night.

“Promise me. That you will never do that again.”

She blinked under that midnight gaze. “I…I thought it was fire, Dómarr, I couldn’t let—”

“Promise me.”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Women are impossible,” he growled. “It is a good thing Varl don’t have any.”

For some reason this caused a strange pang in her gut, very different from the icy hit she’d taken before. She flinched.

“That’s not what I meant,” Dómarr added softly, and pushed silver hair back from her face. Another strange pang, but this one yet again different, and not entirely unpleasant. What was he doing?

“I…do not wish for you to die,” he said, and she made a noise that was both confused and amused. “Agh, that was not what I meant,” he grumbled.

Her entire existence twirled on its axis when he pressed his lips to her forehead. “I don’t want to lose you.”

_What is happening? What is happening, what is he saying, I don’t—_

“It has taken me all this time to figure things out,” he was explaining softly, his breath a blessing against her skin. “You called me clever, but I am not. Not about this. I was stupid. Even yesterday, when you…” His arms tightened, and she was almost crushed against the broad bulk of his chest. “I can’t believe it took you almost dying for me to see.”

She leaned back so she could look at him. “B-but…but you said yourself, Varl don’t _have_ women—”

She had never seen his expression so soft. “May I not? Have just one?”

She choked on what was nearly a sob.

And then he kissed her.

It was unutterably sweet, almost chaste; at great speed a million thoughts ran through her mind – Varl didn’t have relations with women – could they? Did she care? He didn’t really know how to kiss – was he just imitating other humans he’d seen? He was so good, so precious, words she had never really thought to apply to him before, but there it was. Grumpy, and stubborn, and sometimes too quick to fight, but also kind and generous and—

She kissed him back. He made a noise she’d never heard from him before, almost a whimper, and her hands curled around the edge of his shirt.

Gently, hesitantly, she traced her lips across his own. Her hand moved up to his cheek – still a bit of an effort, but it was worth it – and he made another noise, like a growl but softer.

She’d often stifled little flares of desire for him, deeming it inappropriate, disrespectful even. He was her friend, and it had never been his fault that she fell in love with him. But now…

But maybe she was misjudging things. Maybe he loved her, yes, but…that didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted to, or even could…get any closer to her than this.

And knowing that this was the first time he’d gotten anywhere close to what they were doing…she pulled away to look at him. She didn’t want him to be overwhelmed.

Then again – she didn’t want to overwhelm herself, either. It had been almost a decade since she’d been involved with anyone, and that had been brief, and stupid. And had gotten her kicked out of the Mender’s Council, before she’d even become a full Mender. She’d been with Dómarr for seven of the intervening years, and had loved him for…well. Quite some time. She could be patient.

“There are many questions yet to be answered,” she said quietly, seriously. “We…should have a care what others see, they may have…strong opinions.”

“I too have strong opinions,” he said stoically, his huge hand behind her neck, one calloused thumb stroking her jaw. “Along with strong everything else. We can come to an agreement, I’m sure.”

She laughed, and kissed him again, quickly. “Very well, but…”

“We will figure it out as we go. It hardly seems likely for a Varl and a Mender woman to travel together taking bounties either, but we’ve been doing it for many years now.”

She nodded. “True.” She slid both her arms underneath his shirt, barely able to reach his back, and held him close for a moment. This, she would admit to imagining, once or twice. And she smiled broadly against his chest; half a day ago she was ready to die, and now she could think of nothing but reasons to live.


	4. Chapter 4

They trekked back to the human village, with Dalli’s belongings – along with his head – in a sack. They were very careful to wrap the remaining bottles and vials that had been in his possession, and pack them separately in the sack so they couldn’t be broken accidentally. They weren’t sure what to do with them, but Dómarr favored throwing them into the sea as they rowed back across.

But Atla wondered if they might be useful against the Dredge. Although she wasn’t sure who she would trust with the concoctions – the Varl likely wouldn’t want anything to do with it, and there were few humans she knew that ought to have knowledge of something this powerful.

Dómarr didn’t want to keep carrying them around, and Atla couldn’t fault him. So they decided to stow it somewhere outside the village, and then once they’d collected the bounty – which they would then turn around and use to pay mercenaries to train and help protect towns threatened by the Dredge, as they had been for the past few months – they would collect them and set out to find a recipient.

However, the bottles became an issue even before that.

“Yes, that’s definitely him,” the leader of the little hamlet confirmed in disgust after looking into the now-none-too-pleasant-smelling bag. “I have the bounty right here. But did you…happen to retrieve any of his belongings?”

Atla blinked. “You didn’t mention that he’d stolen anything from the village—”

“No, nothing…stolen, exactly, but we wondered if we might take a look at his devices which he employed when we tried to restrain him.”

Atla didn’t immediately answer. Dómarr stepped into the breach.

“We did not bring back any of that. We only found him, and his pack. That is all.”

The man’s face scrunched up. “Ah. A disappointment. Well then – thank you for your work here, I’m glad to know the lout won’t be preying on any other young girls.” One of the young girls in question stood nearby, and threw Atla a frightened glance. She smiled, but the girl turned away.

He handed over the trinkets he’d promised as payment, and Atla and Dómarr looked at one another as he hurried off.

At least they’d been given use of an empty house at the edge of the village for their trouble; Atla looked forward to a bath and an actual bed after the past few weeks of travel.

Dómarr helped her bring in a few buckets of water from the stream nearby – cold as ice, but with a fire in the fireplace she would be fine. He went back out to gather more firewood for the night, and left her to her bath.

She washed her hair first, then the rest of her, then her clothes, and put on a set of clean ones. As she donned her shift she took a moment to inspect the strange scar that now marred the left side of her ribcage – almost like a permanent blue bruise, but with tendrils of lighter blue extending away from it. Her ribs still hurt, all the time, but she’d gotten used to it.

She heard a noise outside; Dómarr must be back with the firewood. She hurriedly finished fastening her robes, and checked the rather rudimentary stew she’d been cooking over the fireplace.

But it was not Dómarr who came through the door.

The village leader, along with several other men she could see behind him.

“Ah, you are alone,” he said with a smile, then over his shoulder, “make sure the Varl does not interrupt us.”

Atla merely raised an eyebrow. She hoped she would not have to hurt these men – they’d no idea what she was; likely thought her Dómarr’s healer, that is what some assumed.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, hoping manners might diffuse the situation.

“Indeed. I hope we can come to some sort of agreement. If you will hand over the fire weapons that Dalli made, we will leave you in peace.”

Atla tilted her head, quickly surveying the three men who stood before her – the rest had gone, presumably, to ‘subdue’ her companion.

A couple of these men had a dangerous look in their eye. She was only thankful she had defenses of her own, otherwise this might end very badly.

“I believe we told you we did not retrieve any of that,” she said, maintaining her courteous façade. “I can hardly give to you what I do not have.”

“Well then you will not object if we just…have a look, then will you?”

“I do object.” Her voice was suddenly steely, but the men did not seem to catch her change in tone.

“Unfortunately you have no say in the matter,” their leader said coldly, and nodded to the other men to pass him into the house.

“You do not want to do that,” she suggested as they came toward her.

“Oh believe me, I like my women strong, with a bit of spirit,” said one of the men, and Atla’s lip pulled back in a sneer.

“Hmm. That’s too bad – I like my men with enough balls not to attack a woman three on one,” she said without a trace of fear in her voice, and the man’s brow lowered.

He approached her, and she quickly called light to her hand. It was easy enough, no disruption of the threads necessary, and suddenly her hand glowed with soft blue light. She held it up.

“I believe I told you. You should leave. Now.”

“A witch!” breathed one of them, and turned to bolt. Their leader, however, was made of sterner stuff, and blocked his exit.

“That is some parlor trick, she cannot do anything significant to us or she would have already done so! Go search their things!”

Atla sighed. She would have to hurt them after all.

“I do hope Dómarr doesn’t kill _all_ those men you sent after him,” she mumbled.

Now she called fire to her hand; a skill she rarely used, given that her companion was so averse to it. But it was another easy trick, since there was a fire just a few feet away in the fireplace. Barely any energy or concentration needed.

She touched the man who’d been looking covetously at her, and his oiled leather vest immediately went up in flames. He ran screaming out the door, and this time the leader stood back, eyes narrowing.

The other man, who had barely started glancing around the house, saw this, and made a run for it himself.

Atla smiled coldly at the village leader, who had taken a hatchet out of its loop at his belt.

“We could make ten times what we gave you for payment,” he snarled. “By selling those potions to the highest bidder. And fire or no, you will give them to us, witch!”

He came toward her, and by then she was left with little patience.

Unfortunately, she was reliant on her physical prowess, which was not what most men expected of a woman. It was also severely hampered at the moment, by her ordeal on the island, and subsequent recovery.

The man swung the hatchet at her; she held up her right hand to deflect the blow along the bracer underneath her robes, as she had with Dalli. It worked, but she buckled under the blow.

Her fire went out with her break in concentration.

“Ha! Some witch you are,” the man laughed, an ugly noise.

She heard a step on the stair out front, and wondered if Dómarr had returned. But she would not make him rescue her.

The man had dropped his hatchet, and his hands went around her throat. She yelled angrily, a sort of chill fury coming over her, and for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she called on the cold. A thing she’d never done before.

She called it not just to her hands, which were on the man’s wrists, but to all of her skin, emanating off of her like the opposite of heat waves.

The man began screaming – tried to let go of her, but she wouldn’t let him.

She smiled as he froze, ice creeping up his arms, to his shoulders, then his chest, his head.

Dómarr had indeed come back, and he stepped forward to help her, but stopped short when he saw her face.

His presence – and the completely still form of her attacker – took a moment to register, and then she pulled the icy hands from her neck in disgust, her skin immediately returning to its usual color.

Dómarr walked slowly around to face the man, saw the horrified face frozen into a caricature of fear. Atla glanced back and forth between them with concern.

Then Dómarr planted a well-executed shove into the man’s chest, which sent him flying through the door.

To shatter on the ground outside.

“Well,” Dómarr said mildly. “That’s new.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horns <3 For reference (since I can't draw), a link is at the bottom...

They found that the man was not even the village’s leader, in truth. That elderly gentleman had been killed weeks ago. The men who’d been posing as the town’s leadership were merely thugs who’d been trying to get at Dalli’s potions for months in order to sell them off.

Dalli had actually been a plague on the young girls of the village, so Atla and Dómarr needn’t feel guilty about having killed him. But he wasn’t the only one.

Dómarr had indeed refrained from killing quite all the thugs that had come after him, and promptly brought them in front of the rest of the town’s residents, which was now mostly women, children, and elderly people.

The daughter of the Elder who’d been killed stepped forward to take control of the situation – a stout lass of middle age and stern voice, who proceeded to order the thugs be shackled and used for farming purposes.

Atla snorted, Dómarr grunted his approval, and they left – having returned the trinkets the thugs had given them as a reward.

“Nothing to show for all that,” Dómarr grumbled as they set off toward Blotsbalkr. Both of them had been reluctant to take the potions there, but given how wary Varl were of such things, they seemed the safer bet to be cautious with its use. Whereas humans…were a different story.

“I beg to differ,” Atla answered a bit flippantly. “I can now command ice, apparently, to deadly effect.”

Dómarr glanced sideways at her. “Yes, and that’s very handy, but you almost died to gain the skill, which is not acceptable if you ask me.”

“I can’t say I disagree with you. However…something else did come of that trip, didn’t it?”

He pursed his lips, trying not to smile and only partially succeeding. “Perhaps.” He softened his reply with a brief caress of her hair. She didn’t bother trying to hide her own grin.

Their relationship had not advanced much on the trek back, it being a difficult journey, and her strength being as it was. She did, however, have the immense satisfaction and joy of sleeping curled in his arms every night – not just when the cold required it.

She thought perhaps having nearly died _was_ worth this result, if nothing else.

But she also hoped that they could get real lodgings at Blotsbalkr, and actually rest for a few days, before haring off again.

Assuming the Dredge weren’t around, that is.

Though few humans were welcome in the sparsely populated Varl city, having a Varl companion ensured she got a decent room far from the center of town, where it was quiet. He went ahead on his own to speak to the Varl leader of the city, while she took the opportunity to sleep – as she’d been looking forward to a few days before when they’d been attacked in the village – in an actual bed. This one nearly swallowed her, as it was made for Varl, not for humans, but little did she mind that.

A huge bed after a bath was bliss, but she could think of an adjustment to her circumstances that would make it a hundred times better. She hoped Dómarr could conclude their business quickly and return to the inn. She knew he hadn’t looked forward to speaking with his former comrades in Blotsbalkr, but he thought the conversation should go relatively smoothly.

She’d slept a few hours, but was beginning to worry, when his knock – unmistakable – sounded at the door, which she’d locked upon his departure. She opened it, and he shuffled in, rubbing his neck, and sporting a few cuts and scrapes, and a rip or two in his leather armor. He tossed a fat paper-wrapped parcel on the table.

She raised an eyebrow, and shut the door behind him.

“Eh, Varl negotiations,” he said dismissively.

“I…trust you didn’t kill any of them? Might affect relations,” she joked.

“Not quite.”

“Here, let me take your things, I’ll mend them.”

“You needn’t, I can take care of it—”

“I _am_ a Mender after all,” she reminded him with a smirk, and he snorted and let her unbuckle the leather straps.

“Is there a bath in this damned place?” he grumbled. She nodded her head toward the alcove across the room that housed the large wooden tub. “Haven’t washed since I got half done in that river at the village. Damn it was cold.” He paused. “Although I suppose not as cold as that one bastard you killed…”

Atla stared at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. A much more blatant joke than she was used to from him. “Listen, he came at me with a hatchet—”

“Trust me, you’ll get no argument here.”

“Mmm.” She finished with the buckles and pulled the worn leather over his head.

He doffed his shirt without thinking – they’d shared lodgings before in their travels, she’d seen him shirtless more than once. But as soon as he got it over his head, he froze, and glanced at her.

She was staring; how could she not? At least…any time she’d stared before she’d been careful to hide it. Now she needn’t, and she didn’t bother, although she couldn’t restrain the blush that rose to her cheeks.

He tossed his shirt on the bed, and closed the space between them.

He was so much taller than she – she’d wondered a few times over the past week or so how…but hadn’t really let herself complete the thought. Kissing him was often on her mind, and it was enough to ponder the mechanics of that.

He removed the question of the best way to accomplish this, by kneeling in front of her, so they were nearly eye to eye.

He carefully pulled her toward him, wrapped his arms around her.

Her giggle made him pause; he started to release her, but she stood on her toes and cradled his head against her. “I just…never thought how useful it might be that your horns don’t point forward,” she explained, chuckling.

He was silent for a moment. “You know, I got teased about that a couple centuries ago, when I was young. ‘Can’t skewer anybody with those,’ they said. I showed them what I _could_ do, however.” She felt him breathe a chuckle. “And to think, now I can also be glad they won’t poke you in the eye.”

“I suppose…most Varl don’t really have to be concerned with the mechanics of kissing a lady,” she whispered, running a hand along the heavy curve of one horn, then into his hair.

He shuddered.

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s…” He leaned back, then pulled her to him, kissing her lightly. “I think I like it,” he breathed, and kissed her again.

Her desire for him welled sudden and hot, and she nearly gasped with the intensity of it. She kissed him more insistently, and he began to follow her lead.

Then she raised her hand again, and fully grasped one horn at the base.

“Mmm—” he practically moaned into her mouth, and she thought her insides would melt then and there.

But he pulled away, breath hot against her lips. “I…”

She put a wisp of space between them. “It’s ok, go have your bath, I’ll order food.” Her voice was breathless, but she couldn’t help that.

He took a deep breath, and got up – when had she learned to love the way he towered over her? – caressed her face once more, then disappeared into the alcove with the tub.

She’d said she would order food, and she meant to, but…

Suddenly her entire thought process was taken up with what he might look like, behind that screen.

She’d seen him with no shirt before, of course. But never…never totally unclothed.

Her face flamed. She shouldn’t be thinking such things. Should she? He might not…he might not wish to…

_Just calm down!_

She hurried down to the tap room to procure food, and just hoped she could stifle her uncharacteristically raging lust long enough to eat dinner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SSSSSSS....smut? In my fics? It's more likely than you think ;)

When she got back, Dómarr was, rather unfortunately, clad in clean clothes, which he’d bought on the way back to the Inn. He had some for her as well, though she was surprised he was able to find clothing for a human woman in this city.

“Some trader pawned it off on him with some other things,” he explained of the merchant he’d gotten it from. “Asked him if he had any human clothes without much hope, and he eagerly gave it to me for almost nothing. Not sure if it’ll fit you but – you’re a mender, right?” He chuckled at his joke, and she smiled, happy to see him in such a good mood.

She shook out the robe of deep blue, lined with fine fur. She wasn’t very picky about her clothes – couldn’t be, with the life they led – but that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate a beautiful garment when she saw one.

She held it up; it might be a bit long – must have been made for a man; she was quite tall for a woman. Perhaps a governor of a town in the region, who had fled already to Arberrang to seek safety with the King of Men.

She ate quickly, and while Dómarr finished she began mending his armor. He told her a bit more about his conversation with the Varl leader – an unofficial title, since this had been the seat of the Varl King Throstr, and his kendr had been Jorundr, who now reigned from Grofheim. The current leader was loosely referred to as the Governor, although he hated it since that was a human title.

When she finished his leathers, she started on the hem of the robe, turning it up a few inches so it wouldn’t drag the ground. They sat close together at the rough wooden table, knees touching, as he spoke of his meeting.

But he soon fell silent, and eventually she looked up from her work. He was staring at his mead, held between two big hands. “Everything alright?” she asked.

He met her eyes, and his gaze seemed worried. “I…am not sure how this will work, Atla.”

She poked herself with the needle. Sucked on her thumb for a moment, then continued sewing, wanting to keep her hands busy so they didn’t flutter about in her nervousness.

She wanted to reassure him, but she wasn’t quite sure how to say it. She normally had no problem with words, but this was a bit difficult.

“We needn’t do anything you prefer not to,” she began. “I don’t…expect anything from you. At all. I don’t even know if…I mean do you…”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Her face was crimson, and she narrowly missed pricking herself again. So much for reassuring him.

He sighed heavily. “Atla, please forgive me, but…”

She tilted her head when he grabbed her hand.

And very hesitantly, placed it over the front of his pants.

She gasped, her eyes going wide _. Oh. Oh blessed Loom-mother_ —

“It is not the… _action_ itself about which I am confused,” he clarified.

“I…I see…” she mumbled, now understanding just what the problem was, one that she had in no way contemplated before. She swallowed. “Well. We will just…figure out about that later,” she said lamely.

He chuckled without much humor, and released her hand.

But suddenly, she was reminded that there were things she could teach him – and things they could learn together – before his…sheer mass became an issue.

He seemed prepared for her to back away, but instead she put her sewing on the table, and knelt in front of him. Found the cord of his pants. And pulled it loose.

He grabbed her wrist. “Atla, wait—”

“We don’t have to—” She looked away, but forced herself to meet his eyes. “There are other things I can do, kærr.” She put a hand against his face; his eyes softened so when she used the endearment, like they had that first night when he kissed her. She could gaze into those midnight pools for the rest of her life…

Holding his eyes, she pulled the front of his pants away. Her heart hammered like a rabbit’s, but it was not merely from nerves.

She wrapped a hand around him; he gave a hastily stifled groan, and she bit her lip.

She couldn’t even get her fingers around him. But by the gods, she hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to touch him until he was in her hands. His eyes were closed now, his face drawn with what was almost pain, but she knew it was something else.

She tightened her grip, sliding her hands his length. Back up. He made a noise that sounded like he might cry, and she smiled wickedly.

But her smile faltered. He was right – actually being intimate with him was going to be…problematic, painful, if even possible. But maybe there were things she could do…it wasn’t as if she was very experienced, so there was a lot she didn’t know. But she would make it her business to find out.

She continued her movements, going a little faster. He was panting, and he laid his big hand against her head, fingers tangling in her hair. She leaned into his palm. Faster now…

“Atla—my love, you must not—”

“No, I will _not_ stop,” she breathed, relishing his pulse resonating beneath her fingers, his weight. His _heat_.

He quickly moved his free hand over his tip, and suddenly she felt a deep throb against her palm; she gasped, and he gave a tortured groan as he came into his hand. She couldn’t believe how aroused she got from _his_ climax, but indeed her own heavy pulse between her legs echoed his.

When it was over he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers for a moment, getting his breath back. Then he hurried to the bathing alcove to wash off. She did so herself at the basin, and narrowly resisted the shocking urge to taste his essence on her fingers.

She was becoming much bolder than she used to be, apparently.

He came out with just his pants on; slung his shirt over the screen, and came toward her, reaching for the ties of her robe.

“W-what—”

“I believe it is time for sleep, is it not?”

“Oh!” She hoped her relief wasn’t too evident in her voice. As much as she’d enjoyed that, she wasn’t ready, yet, to go much further.

When she was down to her shift, he finally pulled the covers back, and pulled her underneath with him, and she almost giggled as he tugged her across his chest, to which she had absolutely no objection.

“Mm,” he grunted, and the rumble beneath her cheek swelled her heart with happiness. “Now, I’m sure you probably wondered some things…”

She nodded.

He pet her hair as he spoke, which seemed to make it easier for him to speak.

“As you know, Varl are only men. We were created as such.”

“Mhmm.”

“Most of us do not have…urges. Those that do…not very often.”

“Oh.”

“And when needed we…tend to take care of them as merely a…matter of course, like…like taking a bath, or what have you.”

“Ah. I see.”

“Do you, now?” he asked, a bit amused.

“I’m not a child, kærr,” she chided him mildly.

“Indeed, you know more than I about many things,” he allowed. “In any case, you seem to be following. I have heard – once or twice, only – of Varl having relations. With women. But I have never _met_ one that has. More often, with other Varl, but even that is rare.”

“Alright.”

He grunted. “So to answer your unspoken question about what just happened, yes, _I_ have done that before, but no, no one else has. Uh…for me.”

She grinned with unprecedented gratification, and squeezed him. “What an enlightening evening!”

“I begin to realize there is a feisty side that you hid from me during all the years we have been together,” he lamented.

She kissed his chin through his beard.

“So…I have more questions.”

“Hadrborg preserve me…”

“Shush. So may I ask…how often? Do you…I mean might I…no! I mean _usually_ what—”

His bark of laughter cut her off, and she shoved him halfheartedly.

“Usually? Weeks or months go by without it being necessary.”

She deflated a bit against him. If that were the case, if they ever did become able to…well, it didn’t bear analysis right now anyway.

“More recently? A week might be a stretch.”

She perked up. “Wait…what do you mean by more recently? Like, in the past week or two since Mornforth Taing, or…?”

He cleared his throat. “Mostly, yes.”

She sat up so she could see his face properly.

“Mostly?”

He stared with great determination at the wooden beams of the ceiling. “It has been…a bit more frequent in recent years,” he mumbled.

She sat fully up, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Do you mean to tell me, that you have had a…a _thing_ for me? And you didn’t _say_ anything?? I have been languishing all this time, you doltish Varl, how dare—”

“I didn’t know!” he insisted, putting his hands up before his face to ward off any impending blows. “I mean…I knew you were causing it but I didn’t…put two and two…well.”

“What an idiotic—” She pretended to swing at him, but in so doing accidentally repositioned herself astride him. And very abruptly realized how she was sitting.

“Ah!” She made a noise of shock when he moved beneath her. How—

“I’m sorry! You can’t—here!” He pulled her up so she was in a less provocative spot, and she laid back against him.

“But…I didn’t think…”

“Perhaps you don’t know quite _everything_ , Mender,” he grumbled, and she snorted.

She sighed with contentment as he pulled the covers back over them that she’d dislodged. “Mmm, I suppose you could teach me one or two things, my yox.”

“How dare you,” he mumbled, already falling asleep.


End file.
